


Thesis of a Troubled Heart

by SpecElec



Category: Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Crying, Gen, Internal Monologue, Panic Attacks, Psychosis, Regret, Science, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-02 11:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14543430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecElec/pseuds/SpecElec
Summary: Some things can't be (un)done. (Varian post-QFaD.)





	Thesis of a Troubled Heart

**I. hypothesis <as it happens.>**

 

Everything swirls, purple and grey and gold, in front of Varian's eyes.

It's not real. It's a nightmare, the worst nightmare he's ever had. _Time to wake up, son!_

The amber is so cruelly, breathtakingly beautiful, glinting and glimmering as if to say,

"look at what you've created! are you not proud? don't you like your creation?"

"look!"  
_"LOOK!"_

He'd rather look anywhere else, yet he can't tear his eyes away from it.

He can't do this now, he can't. There has to be some other way, some other way to JUSTIFY-

_it's not me i didn't mean it's not my fault IT'S NOT MY FAULT_

Words, accusations, some whispering, others roaring, a cacophony of pain and shame assaulted Varian's mind.

Then three, simple, clear, words, floating in what was left of Varian's rational consciousness.

_Not._  
  
_My._

_Fault._

Not (a logical negation)

my ( _I, Varian, can unlock the mystery of your hair with the power of science!_ )

fault ( _mistake, error, attribution, blame, WRONG WRONG WRONG i wasn't wrong_ ).

But if not him, then who?

If not this way, then how?

Events slowly started to realign and reshape, bending reality into something not-so-sharp, easier to digest and mull over without making him so dizzy and sick...

Because if he considered himself a prime suspect one more time he was going to descend into a silent and horrifying scream that would never, ever end, and even now. Even now. He was falling, right on the cusp of an insanity that he knew was totally and completely irreparable.

(It couldn't be HIM, because if ( _IF!_ ) it was HIM, that would mean that HE HIMSELF was RESPONSIBLE ( _please, no nonoNO_ ) for _THIS_ and he couldn't be RESPONSIBLE, not for _THIS_ , because _THIS_ was the very thing currently swallowing up his whole world whole, and if ( _IF! IF!_ ) HE HIMSELF had been the one to do it, then that would mean... then _THAT_ would mean...)

Bile, rising in his throat. His vision swimming.

_NO! No, no, no, NO. No._  
_Stop thinking this way STOP._  
_stop. no. stop._

It took him a moment to realize that he'd been shaking violently. Rapid, rapid little shallow breaths piping up and up and up - no wonder he couldn't see straight, with no oxygen he was going to faint -

_Breathe, Varian. Just... just BREATHE-_

Varian leaned forward, shutting his eyes tight against the garish gold. It made the world dark and soothing. The inhale was shaky and it wasn't a particularly deep breath. But it let him THINK, gave him enough AIR to start to work with - gasping for more of it, now, as if he'd floated up from drowning.

There were so many other tantalizing avenues and explanations to think about, so many ways to explain this... this RESULT to everyone. And even now, his mind quickly flitted to each one, evaluating it at lightning speed for explainability, how likely he would be to give away tells when telling it, rationality, and several other variables he wasn't sure how to quantify. It had to seem... real. Something that people would believe.

_Ruddiger did it by knocking over a stray flask._  
_It happened spontaneously._  
_It would have happened anyway._

No one knew what the black rocks could and couldn't do. That made things easy (didn't it? _didn't it?_ )

Myriad ideas, possible paths and reasons and justifications rushed through Varian's mind. As long as none of the paths brought him on any horrifying, circular loops of cruel logic back to the prior way of thinking - the null hypothesis, which would soon be rejected, as soon as a sufficient alternative was found - as long as that property held true...

But what to say? How best to argue AGAINST the trut-

Back, regressing again into sharp breaths and tears in his eyes again.

_Not the truth. No! Not real. None of this is real._

Science was simply a system of competing theories. And as long as he could manage to argue his theory better than anyone else's theory, then he would win. He wouldn't have to consider other theories anymore. And he could surround himself only with those who trusted implicitly in his theories, if anyone at all.

And that is how his theory would BECOME the truth, then.

His truth.

He would _make_ it real.

With the proper set-up, the proper everything.

He would make it all real and never have to think again about Dad with his arm and it's STUCK there, and now there's no way to -

Another involuntary sob came shuddering through, and then.

As his mind reeled with possibilities, different branches of a forked path, _run away / don't come back / try to fix it before anyone else finds out / go back to the castle and try again / lie here and STARVE -_

The answer. The beautiful, simple answer to everything.

_It was them._

They were the ones who wouldn't help. Who refused him. Who threw him back out, into the cold. It was always them.

It was them who deceived him.

Her, who had promised him everything and gave him nothing, NOTHING after all.

_THEY_ were the true sources of all of this misery. Only they had the power to do anything - they were royalty, after all. And chose not to.

They could have fixed this problem long ago. _And they chose not to._

Somewhere far away, he was certain he could hear their laughter. Their dignified, affected laughter from their castles and towers, far away and up high to keep them all safe from the cruel tragedies in this world.

(So the princess had been kidnapped - boo hoo. At least she had an entire kingdom searching for her relentlessly for eighteen years.)

(And yet, here he was, a royal subject himself, _the son of a vassal_ , he had appealed for their help not eighteen hours ago and they couldn't care less.)

He could hear their mocking, cruel, _aristocratic_ laughter. 

And an anger, like none he had ever felt before, deep and burning, began to uncoil, somewhere in his chest... in his _heart_...

\--------------------------------------------

**II. research <the night of.>**

 

The night came down and the moon shone in, making the crystal shine with a strange and unearthly glow.

In a stupor, Varian paced the floors of the house. He felt he must be getting sick with something, probably from trudging through the freezing blizzard both ways. Sleep was impossible, and he felt as if food wouldn't stay down for long.

No point in lighting a fire, he didn't deserve to be warm.

Ruddiger followed him from room to room, quietly, as if somewhat terrified by the haunting state of his master, pacing around haunting this house (a home no longer) like a ghost.

His father's bedroom was untouched, a place where he had sometimes sought refuge from scary nightmares when he was small. It was empty, and silent. Nothing warm or friendly about it except the painting on the wall, the one Varian was careful not to look at, for fear of having a breakdown if he did.

His whole world, stolen. 

The snow had been cold, the wind harsh and whipping, like cruel lashes across his face. In some places, the snow drifts were nearly as tall as he was. The cruelty of the blizzard had encrusted everything with ice. Every step of the way, he risked frostbite, hypothermia, exhaustion. Even a sprained ankle would've meant death - there was no one coming to help him in the godforsaken wilderness. He would've succumbed to the elements within hours at temperatures that low. Quirin would have scolded him for taking on this weather alone - between the icy, punishing winds and the sheer distance required, Varian knew he'd been in real, true danger. Old Corona and Corona proper were no stone's throw apart, even on a clear, sunny day. 

To make such a trek should've been impossible. But he'd done it, using every shortcut he knew to cut the distance and make it there as fast as humanly possible.

He'd _won_.

So why, then? Why was he here in an empty house, without a word of comfort spoken to him since it happened?

Why had they dragged him out, ignoring his distress, his screams, and tossed him unceremoniously out into the tempest _again?_

Why had he been forced to trudge every miserable step of the way back, _empty-handed_ , the storm even more intense than before?

Was this his punishment for something?

Was this punishment for ruining everything he touched?

Was it punishment for wanting to be loved?

Was it punishment for merely _existing_?

He could always talk, he could talk and talk and talk and talk. He could talk now, too. Just for the luxury of hearing a human voice.

Maybe whisper a little lullaby to himself. So he wouldn't completely lose his mind.

He could talk, and talk, and talk... but no one would ever answer. No one.

Dad wasn't in his room and this time he wasn't in the fields, either. He wouldn't be chatting good-naturedly with the neighbors, or chopping firewood out back.

He would be in Varian's lab. And there he would _stay_...

Varian found himself shouting a word that he had only heard his father use a few times, and never in his presence or when he knew Varian was listening. It was a word he had used when he had dropped some heavy equipment on his foot while working the fields.

It felt good, somehow, shouting that word. He shouted it a few more times, letting it echo in the emptiness of the room.

Shivering with the sheer power of it, Varian paused a few seconds before looking back over his shoulder. As if he expected Quirin to be standing there with a disapproving frown. _"You're not to use that language, son."_

But of course, there was no one.

Which also meant no rules. No one telling him what to do, no one setting limits or telling him when to sleep or stop working. He could work all day every day now if he wanted to. And there would be no one to stop him.

An idea struck him, then. Something he hadn't considered before.

Varian painstakingly collected his most important chemistry books and laid them out, systematically, on the floor of his father's room. The luminescent substance he had spent so long perfecting would act as a perfect reading light. (It was _not_ a night light.)

Turning the page of  _An Introduction to Practical Chymistry Volume I_ , a book he had long since read cover-to-cover, he solemnly began the process of learning and re-learning everything there was to know about chemical reactions. He couldn't afford to miss anything, and it was going to take a long time to fix what had been set so wrong.

And he began reading...

<the next morning.>

As the sun streamed in, happy and bright as if everything were normal, Varian found himself awaking in his father's room, curled up on the floor and surrounded by tomes.

Had he passed out here?

\--------------------------------------------

**III. experimentation <the days after.>**

 

Experiments ran day and night, a neverending cycle of failure and tears.

The same experiment would repeat two-three-four-five times, always with the same result. The laws of controlled experimentation held true, as always, but... what if he had made a mistake the first time?

Varian could be patient. As long as it took, he could wait. Usually. But not now, not this way.

Where once was joy and discovery in experimentation, now was only a frantic search for a cure that never seemed to _work_. Panicked, hands trembling constantly, Varian tried every single experiment he had previously tried on the black rocks, on the amber.

It was _useless_. They were _unbreakable_.

And in the recesses of his mind, the cruel voice always whispered:

_If you were a better alchemist, you would be able to free him._

It became too painful to see his father's face, his body trapped in a prison of Varian's own making. In the night, when he became too exhausted to mill about the lab properly, he stitched and sewed together every blanket he could find, for hours, creating a sheet that would hide away the evidence of his - of _the princess'_   transgression.

 

The days poured into each other, slowly filtering out any semblance of normal life. There had never been a time when Dad hadn't been there to guide him, remind him to eat and to sleep and to bathe.

That guiding light had been there since before he had memories at all, a gentle and expected constant who always knew what to do, and now, without fanfare, it had been snuffed out...

...by _THEM_.

Cassandra. She had done _nothing,_ despite the promises they'd made each other about friendship. How she'd never betray him again. It was the last time he'd believe any of those lies - never again. 

Flynn. His _hero_ , his _idol_ \- just a useless idiot, and nothing more.

The king and queen, two people he had once thought of in the highest esteem. Convenient how they'd decided to abandon their kingdom when it needed them most, leaving it in the inept hands of...

The princess. She was the one who'd turned him away in his hour of greatest need. He had done nothing but help her, asking nothing in return, until now. One thing - just one simple request denied. She claimed it was due to the weather, but was it? Corona hardly needed the insights of a princess who had only been a princess for a few months. She could've left Corona's safety in the hands of her advisors, who were clearly making all of the important decisions anyway. They seemed to control her, manipulate her into believing that their lies were the right thing to do. But she was a _princess_ , she had the power to do as she _pleased_ and now she had chosen to leave him here, like this.

They had _lied_. Said they were his friends; they weren't supposed to _abandon_ him.

Experiment after experiment goes awry, failing as the sun sets, the moon rises, then the sun rises again, until he loses track of the day. He throws every chemical compound, every acid and base, every household cleaner and solvent he can find, at the unforgiving amber, in combinations that he's already stopped documenting. The same things are tried again and again, with a permanent refrain echoing through his mind.

It's the only thing that can distract him from the pain.

_it's not my fault._

_it's not my fault._

_it's not._

\--------------------------------------------

**IV. analysis <ghosts from the past.>**

 

One minute he's running a simple test, and the next he's finding it difficult to breathe. Whatever he'd mixed clearly should not have been mixed, and the air in the lab quickly filled with a noxious, deadly vapor. He hadn't noticed his eyes tearing, that was a normal daily occurrence, now - for other reasons. But the coughing wasn't normal, and as he frantically dashed about opening windows, his last thought was _I can't leave Dad down here. I can't leave him again_. 

But he'd be safe, in his crystalline prison. Probably.

The lab would need time to air out. Which meant more hours of constantly pacing the floors upstairs, trying to stay away from rooms and objects that generated painful memories. And yet, they were everywhere.

"M-maybe the acidity of the gas will melt the amber, right, Ruddiger?"

The raccoon tilted his head to the side as if unsure.

"Right... I don't even know... what I was thinking..."

Numbness had, at last, replaced his panic. Exhaustion had taken its toll. 

The result was one very tired alchemist.

He couldn't recall the journey up the stairs and into his own bed, but there he was, Ruddiger tucked up near his feet like a faithful dog. And if he tried, he could pretend his father was sleeping too, just down the hall. Only a short walk away.

His dad's smile, his broad rumbly laugh, his infrequent but warm hugs.

Varian was surprised to find that he did have one more tear in him. It leaked out and ran down his face onto his pillow. 

_Remember, their fault. Their fault. Not yours._

And if he concentrated hard, he could remember his mother's face and her voice, too.

Mom used to smell like lilacs.

She used to tickle him to make him smile, followed by a gentle touch to each side of his face, cooing about his smile and dimples and freckles and other things that mothers gush about.

None of the local kids ever hassled him about his teeth, since wonky teeth were just something to be expected out in any rural town, and no one else's were very good either. But somehow, when he was six years old, someone had got it spread around that Varian's particularly... prominent smile was the fault of a thumbsucking habit (which wasn't entirely a fiction, but he'd stopped cold turkey when he was four). Plus, he knew for a fact he'd been born looking as he did.

He'd considered explaining simple genetic orthodontia to his detractors, but a rumor was a rumor.

The words hurt, but Mom always understood. She'd cuddle him and tell him how perfect he was, just for being him. 

He could remember his mother's hugs, too. A good memory that settled over him like a thick quilt, warm and bittersweet by turns.

But if it was going to be too painful to think about Dad, then Mom was all he had...

Spent, Varian settled down into his own bed and fell into a deep and relatively peaceful sleep.

He could see her in his dreams, now. In the distance, her gaze averted. Not looking at him.

He hadn't seen her in years - _so much time_. "Mom!" he called.

She didn't look. _Why didn't she look?_

What had happened, in all these years? Didn't she care? Did she not want him anymore?

Was it something he'd _done?_

Stuck in his nightmare, Varian felt an awful wave of sickness and guilt attack him in waves, at that. He wanted to _run_ to her, but she was drifting away, out of his sight, into the mist and darkness all around him.

"Mom, help me! HELP ME! _YOU KNOW IT'S NOT MY FAULT!_ "

There was only silence. Forcing himself to somehow calm, he focused directly on that retreating figure of his mother. If he could just talk to her. Explain to her what the princess had done, that they were all _against him._ Then she'd be on his side again, as she'd always been. She'd promise him that everything would be all right...

"Mom, please. Say something. Look at me. Please, please say something. Anything."

Varian blinked, and in that blink, and the figure in the mists disappeared completely.

_No!_

Falling to his knees, Varian shouted with what felt like no air to breathe.

"TELL ME I'M NOT CRAZY! _PLEASE! MOM!_ Mama..."

He awakes suddenly, feeling tense. His muscles are locked, and he's curled into a tight ball - as if to protect his softer core.

Even sleep, then, was no longer safe.

 

\--------------------------------------------

**V. refutation <the mood potion.>**

 

The forest is cold and big, not the cheery and exciting place it once was. Happy birdsong, blue skies and crunchy leaves are all ignored in favor of an ever-denser and ever-present fog, the mental fog of grief and constant terrors.

Sometimes, he thinks he hears his father calling him, but it's only a distant and far-off animal.

In the early morning, there is no chance anyone will run into him and no chance he'll run into anyone, and that's just how he wants it. Ruddiger, still happy and free, jumps into little patches of leaves and chitters as if drunk on happiness.

_Oh, to be so free again..._

A family of geese trots by in the distance, heading downhill towards the pond. Varian tries to ignore the heartache seeping in, at the tiny goslings stumbling to keep up with their parent. It wasn't long ago that he himself had had a spot of trouble keeping up with his father's big strides. He used to follow him everywhere, worship him. Dad was his hero - until he started lying and deceiving, saying cryptic things that made no sense.

_"...more to them than you can possibly imagine..."_

The pain was short-lived, however. Varian's heart had become too tired to ache. He'd already cried until there was nothing left, the reserves dry and hollow. The sheer pain of having to live without Dad for the first time was more than enough to dull other physical hurts. The result was a listless fugue - blue skies seemed gray; the autumn leaves all looked brown instead of red and gold.

The stream is ahead. There will be plenty of healthy plants there, and he's always in need of raw materials. 

Then, he sees it. It floats lazily by downstream, and he almost would have missed it.

It's just a tiny little bottle, almost empty but for a sprinkling of purple liquid clinging to the inside.

"Huh..."

"Well, what do we have here?"

\--------------------------------------------

**VI. reformulation <the plan.>**

 

The Sundrop flower is going to be the end-all and be-all.

The answer to everything. He needs to find that flower.

"Fine, Ruddiger. That's fine. You know what? If they won't give us the information we need... we'll just have to take it, won't we?"

Something deep inside screams "stop!".

This could hurt someone. This could even _kil-_

No. There's no way. The margin of error is less than point zero zero zero...

It's not poison. It's only alchemy, after all.

And, after all... what harm could a little alchemy do? Just because it's ripped his life asunder and plunged him into Hell, why give up? Why stop now?

What good would it do him now?

\--------------------------------------------

**VII. defense <why he did it.>**

 

Maybe he shouldn't have started all of this.

But oh, it had to be done.

_for the poor hens and roosters and their little chicks, displaced and disrupted. how could anyone stand by and let POOR, DEFENSELESS animals suffer?_

_for their neighbor, who had lost months' worth of fine ale and cider, his family's livelihood, to this senseless DESTRUCTION._

_for the family living down the hill on the other side of town, where their property had been cleaved in half, a dangerous barrier without cause. what if their CHILDREN had gotten HURT_

_for little sara ann, her favorite toy impaled by these horrible formations while she was out PLAYING. what if... what IF..._

_for the family on the hill, their well destroyed by this growth. their precious and life-giving water, now on a ration, another design of his father's complete mishandling of the problem by ignoring the ROOT CAUSE_

_for the agnellis, their FAMILY HOME upended and destroyed, children displaced, forced to depend on the charity of neighbors. not a peep from the ivory towers, no promises of help or a warm place to stay just a cry ignored. they could've been killed in their sleep, a whole family wiped out in one night. what kind of a king DOES THAT_

_for old man wright, his land laid asunder with no promises of remuneration. already suffering, the people of old corona should REVOLT at the REVOLTING way they were treated..._

This was their town. It had to be protected by someone.

_And, since Dad can't right now. I will._

_\--------------------------------------------_

**VIII. and in conclusion <on the eve of destruction.>**

 

Papers and shards of glass lie strewn across the floor of the lab, the shards reflecting back an image he doesn't want to see. He knows he looks pale, thin, exhausted and scared, so he won't look anymore. Won't look at the mess he's created - he'll clean it up eventually. Unlike the other mess he's creat-

It was them, it was them. Always remember it was them.

Never forget that. _Never._

But now the drill, the drill is BROKEN, and how is he ever going to get the princess here, he'd been so DUMB, so steeped in his own bravado that he had made a critical error. He should have LIED, kept up his cover of cheerful helpfulness so that he could use her later. She was a valuable resource, probably the ONLY resource, now, that he still had left to use. But in his insanity and anger, he couldn't resist the temptation of breaking her trust, of revealing his perfect plan in all its glory. He wanted her to know exactly what she was dealing with. Poison - and not just the kind in the cookies. He had wanted her afraid, and now...

It was a not-so-gentle reminder that some words cannot be "taken back". Varian had always been impulsive, blunt with his language, and had a tendency to blurt things out with all the guile and honesty of a young child. It was his father who was ever the tactful one, always knew exactly what to say, and reminded him to rein in his boisterousness. It had kept him out of a lot of trouble. 

If only he were here now, but BREATHING. Breathing and alive, not frozen in a chunk of rock. 

It wasn't something Varian could _ever_ countenance... but... what if... what if he wasn't even... 

But no. _No._

He wasn't going to give up now, he wasn't EVER going to give up. Not until Dad was here. Dad would make everything right, he'd make all of this go away, he can do ANYTHING -

_As long as Dad is freed, nothing else matters._

Ruddiger chitters and chunners in the background, pawing at the grotesque golden sculpture that has remained an unignorable reminder stationed like a massive sentry.

Keeping a watchful eye, maybe.

_I want you to see me, Dad. I want you to watch me succeed -_

His eyes, _unseeing._

It wasn't fair. It was NEVER fair.

As he silently picked up the mess from his earlier rage, Varian found he couldn't prevent tears from falling, fresh pain rekindled, but they were silent. A few sniffles, maybe.

_Why does she get to have her parents back? Why can't I -_

Oh.

Yes.

_That was it._

That's how he would lure the princess here.

She would know exactly how he felt. And then she would truly _understand._

_Yes._

"Dad, I know... I know you'll understand."

_If my Dad knew what I was doing down here, he'd kill me. But if he knew what I was really doing, he'd be impressed! Or at least, I hope he'd be impressed._

_He'll see, he'll have to understand._

_Don't you worry... Whatever it might take... I'm finding a way._

_I promise._

**Author's Note:**

> I needed more Varian insanity and this happened.
> 
> Season 2, PLEASE come soon. The longer I wait, the crazier I seem to get, and my writing follows...
> 
> If you want to see visuals on the black rock situation, the ones that had Varian so incensed, I got those capped for you here:  
> http://astrologista.tumblr.com/post/172264696007/things-have-gotten-worse-how-much-worse-a
> 
> Also Google "chymistry" and skip down a few links if you have nothing better to do. It'll be fun.


End file.
